Dear Sir,
by La Guera
Summary: A student makes a last, desperate plea to her favorite professor. Mild language.


All characters and places and places belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. Inc., save R. Stanhope, who is mine.  For entertainment only.  An AU fic exploring possible outcomes for SLS. 

     They buried you today, sir.  I was there, and just like you asked, I didn't cry.  I wanted to; God how I wanted to.  But I strangled on my grief.  For you.  A promise is a promise.  The others cried.  Even Draco wept.  Silently and without expression, but he wept all the same.  Do you know, his tears were like ice crystals, as cold and delicate as he is?  I was fascinated by them, mesmerized.  Watching them as they made glistening tracks down his cheeks distracted me from the reason I was there.  I don't think he knew I was watching.  He never would have cried if he did.  He would never let me see him like that.  You know how he is.

     Headmaster Dumbledore took it hard, harder than the rest of them, I think.  Nothing could have distracted him from why he was there.  That knowledge was stamped into his skin, steeped in every wrinkle of his face.  And there were a lot of them.  More than I can ever recall seeing there before.  He looked so old, Professor, so ancient.  It was like you'd taken most of his lifeforce with you when you left.  I suppose it's possible.  You certainly took most of mine.

     He gave a nice speech, though, for whatever that's worth.  He spoke of your courage, your honor, and your dignity.  Most of all, he spoke of your sacrifice.  As if he'd know anything about it.  That's just like him, though.  To take all the credit.  I shouldn't be surprised.  What was it you told me once?  Gryffindors wear the mantle of glory better than the others.  That's why they were so very eager to claim it, even when it didn't belong to them.

     Well, the Headmaster certainly claimed it.  His voice shook, and he faltered in all the right places.  When he looked at your black casket standing there on its polished runners, his eyes filled with tears.  Oh, the performance was brilliant!  It certainly impressed the rest of the attendees.  But we knew, Draco and I.  We knew the truth, and it burned in our bellies like curdled vinegar.  

     I know you loved him, and that is the only reason I didn't rush the podium and throttle him where he stood.  I didn't want to dishonor you, your memory.  It was your moment, not his, and I wasn't turning him into a martyr so they could all have an excuse to ignore you again, just like they had in life.  I thought about it, though.  Thought about it long and hard.  So did Draco.  It was one of the few things we've ever had in common.

     That old son of a bitch.  Where was he when it mattered?  Where was he when it was all over, when all the glory was gone?  Where was he when it came for you, devouring you from the inside out?  Where was he when you were weeping with the pain, crying out for people long dead?  Where was he when you were vomiting blood, and we held you over the toilet because you were too weak to hold yourself?  Where was he when the raging fever came and stole all that was good and wonderful from you-your memory, your intellect, your love for us?  I'll tell where he was.  He was locked his ivory tower, in that place no evil could touch.  He left Draco and I to clean up the mess.

     People are such hypocrites at funerals.  Old McGonagall, who never had a kind word to say about you, was wibbling in a most melodramatic fashion.  She sniffled and honked loudly into her handkerchief several times.  She also gave me a very wide berth as she was leaving.  Perhaps she thought I might lash out at her.  Tempting, but no.

     There weren't many people there, but then, I don't think you were expecting any differently.  You knew how myopic people were, how close-minded and petty.  You knew people never forgot your sins, no matter how hard you tried to erase them.  And you tried so very hard.  You drove yourself to your death in the attempt.  And they still didn't care.  Most of them are probably out having a drink to celebrate your passing.  A toast to one less Death Eater in the world.  Bastards.

     I stayed for a while after everyone else left.  We both did.  It seemed wrong to just leave you there in the cold ground, abandon you there like a child's discarded plaything.  We'd been with you for so long.  We didn't want to leave you.  Not now, when you needed us most.  That would be too faithless, and of all the things we have ever been, faithless was never one of them.

     You can't imagine how cold the ground was around your grave.  Like ice covered with a thin layer of dirt.  My hands went numb when I touched it.  So did my knees.  It's awful, you being in a place like that.  It isn't right.  That casket isn't enough to keep you warm.  I said as much to Draco, and he nodded.  He didn't think I was mad.  He only nodded.

     I sat on my hands and my knees in the dirt for a very long time, my forehead pressed into the earth.  I was listening for you, searching for you or some part of you beneath the earth.  I know it sounds crazy, but I wanted to be sure that we hadn't made a mistake, that you weren't down there calling out for help, lost and alone and blind.  I would have dug you up with my bare hands if need be.  I stayed there until my lips and my nail beds turned blue.  Until Draco made me leave you.  He can be remarkably human when he wants to be.

     We've been home a few hours now.  Everything is the same.  Everything is different.  Everything is in its place.  The books are in their places, alphabetized the way you liked.  The furniture is where it should be.  Your laboratory stands untouched.  Everything is just right.  Except for you.  You are not here.  Funny how one little thing makes all the difference.

     The house is empty without you.  You've been gone less than a week, and already it's lost that lived-in feel.  It's tomb now.  The air is stale and close, and no matter how many windows I open, I can't bring life into it again.  The worst part is that your smell is gone.  You know the one.  That light, musky smell of allspice and parchment dust.  It started to leave the day after you left.  It seeped out through the cracks beneath the doors and leaked through the porous wooden floors.  I couldn't hold on to it.  I just couldn't.  It faded, no matter how hard I fought.  And I fought hard.

     I don't understand why you left.  People have been trying to comfort me.  "He's gone to a better place," they say with a wise, knowing look.  I want to punch them in the face.  They also tell me your suffering is over, but how do they know that?  What if you didn't go where they think you did?  What if you're locked in eternal damnation, alone and screaming in the sulphurous dark, alone and screaming, writhing beneath the torment of unending pain?  What if you're there, and I can't reach you?  Wherever you are, I want to be there too.

     I found one of your old robes, and I'm nestled beneath it, lying beside Draco.  Don't worry, we're not doing anything sordid.  We can barely look at one another, much less contemplate _that.  _It's just nice to be with someone who understands.  And he does.  The robe smells nice.  It smells like you, and under here it isn't so bad.

     It's dark inside, sir, so dark without your hatelight to guide me.  I wasn't ready for you to go.  I'm lost.  I need your help, your guidance.  You were my teacher, so teach me this.  Teach me how to live without you.  I loved you, and after everything I did for you, I'm asking this one favor.  Come back and teach me one last lesson.  Because I can't learn it without you.  Dear sir, please come home.

Yours faithfully,

Rebecca Stanhope


End file.
